Mayang Mababa Ang Lipad Lowflying Sparrow
by Shaariin13
Summary: Because you know - from the deepest recesses of your heart - that you are beyond salvation, and this cycle of your life will simply replay again and again until the end: student by day, low-flying sparrow by night. M for sexual themes prostitution , blatant homosexuality
1. Low-Flying Sparrow

**Title: **Mayang Mababa Ang Lipad (Low-flying Sparrow)

**Author: **Shaariin13

**Word Count: **

**Prompt:** College Life: Different Facets of a student's everyday life (theme for the literary section of the University Scribe Magazine)

**Rating: **M for sexual themes (prostitution), blatant homosexuality

**Warnings:** sexual themes (prostitution), blatant homosexuality and crude language

**Summary: **Because you know - from the deepest recesses of your heart - that you are beyond salvation, and this cycle of your life will simply replay again and again until the end: student by day, low-flying sparrow by night. M for sexual themes (prostitution), blatant homosexuality

**A/N: **This is the English-translated version of 'Mayang Mababa ang Lipad.' 'Kalapating mababa ang lipad (low-flying dove)' is an allusion that refers to prostitutes, or women who give pleasure in exchange for money. Since I'm using Yamamoto here, I exchanged the dove for the more appropriate sparrow, hence the title; although the maya is a tree sparrow, while Kojirou is of a different type. Also, the instances mentioned here are based on Filipino terms and clichéd tendencies, only in Japanese form (like '–nii' for 'Kuya' and 'Sensei' for 'Sir'). If you ever get confused, review or PM your queries and I'll try my best to explain. Oh, and Yamamoto is half-Japanese, half-Filipino here, and the story takes place in the Philippines. As mentioned in the original version, I'll be posting extended versions of both some time soon, where Goku-chan will be included. Hope I'll be able to finish those soon…

* * *

**Mayang Mababa Ang Lipad (Low-flying Sparrow)**

Your eyes flew open. You look to the left; it's nine o'clock. It's the start of a new day. You felt groggy. It was three in the morning when you left your work place, and past-four when you managed to fall asleep.

You sat up on your bed and stretched. You still have four hours to prepare and go to school. It's only Friday: you still have classes tomorrow, but you were free every Sunday until Tuesday afternoon. As usual, you spend it working. When will you be able to take a vacation, even once?

You stood up and exited the room at the end of your rented apartment. You have no time for senseless dreams, dreams that have no chance of becoming reality. Or so you say to yourself.

You set the rice to cooking. You thought of taking a bath while choosing what to have for breakfast.

You rush to your closet for a change of clothes. You were so tired you couldn't even change out of your clothes when you got home.

Once in the bathroom, you couldn't wait to strip off the collared shirt you wore the whole evening (you took it off some time that night, and you don't want to think about the stain on the front). You turned on the shower, not minding the blast of cold water. You twisted the knob to maximum, but it felt as if it weren't enough.

You are disgusted with yourself. You could be considered a veteran in your profession (how many years? You were in your first year then, so it's already been a little over six years) yet you still can't help yourself from chilling, bristling, upchucking; every time you see your reflection on the mirror in your room covered in marks from hands, from lips on your tanned skin; the remains of your nightmares at night, when you're not asleep.

You return to the kitchen, opening the small fridge you inherited from your father. You are alone in life: your prostitute mother died at giving birth to you. Your Japanese father passed away when you were eleven. It was literally a 'turn to the blade scenario'. Your Dad went back to Japan to ask his rich parents for assistance in supporting you. It was his own treasured katana that your brilliant grandfather used on him. You never heard from your 'blood kin' since then.

Suddenly, you lost your appetite. You decided to go to school early; you wanted to borrow your friend's notes on one of your subjects.

Thirty minutes later, you were sitting in with your block-sectioned classmates while their instructor was discussing in front. Sensei allowed it; he knows you, since you've already taken this subject last year.

"You're covered in bruises again, Takeshi nii-san. You did some overtime last night, didn't you?"

You smiled at the worried look you saw on Haru's face. "It's okay, the tip they left was good, anyways. Plus, I was with a former costumer; I just fell off the bed."

It's been two months since Haru discovered your livelihood. Imagine your surprise when one night, you saw your classmate – bespectacled, conservatively dressed, hair trapped in a ponytail by day – at your work place drinking and dancing without a care in the world, the hem of her miniskirt inching up with every sway of her hips. You abduct her and bring her to one of the rooms located on the second floor to confront her. You discovered she's part of a broken family, that her sneaking away at night was her only respite from the temptation of the blade hidden in her bathroom. You had a silent agreement to protect each other's secrets.

"If only I could, I would definitely help Onii-san." She's tearing up once again. It was lunch, and you were treating her at a diner in front of the university.

"I know, but you can't, remember? What would your father say if he finds out you sneak out to go clubbing on weekend nights?" You remind her.

Her forehead knotted. "Yeah, I get it." She adjusted the glasses that slid down her aquiline nose and looked at you. "See you there tonight, okay?"

All you could do was nod.

Six hours passed and your student life ended for the day. Your soft raven hair was gelled up, contacts obscuring your eyes as clear as the brandy ordered by the men staring intently at you, as if hypnotized by every wave of your hand, every move of your hips as your body is unveiled it by bit.

You pass by Haru sitting beside the stage, eyes sad, unable to help you. You smiled – the most seductive you could muster – hoping your message of 'It's okay, I'm used to it' gets across to her.

"I'll talk to her later," you whisper to yourself. "Time for work."

Because you know - from the deepest recesses of your heart - that you are beyond salvation, and this cycle of your life will simply replay again and again until the end:

Student by day, low-flying sparrow by night.


	2. Your Savior (Low-Flying Sparrow Part II)

**Title: **Your Savior (Low-flying Sparrow Part II)

**Author: **Shaariin13

**Word Count: **942 (details and A/Ns exclusive)

**Rating: **M for sexual themes (prostitution) crude language

**Warnings:** sexual themes (prostitution), blatant homosexuality and crude language

**Summary: **Because you know - from the deepest recesses of your heart - that you are beyond salvation, and this cycle of your life will simply replay again and again until the end: student by day, low-flying sparrow by night. M for sexual themes (prostitution), blatant homosexuality

**A/N:** And here's the promised continuation of _Mayang Mababa ang Lipad_ or Low-flying Sparrow. The main reason why it took this long to materialize was because I couldn't get around connecting LFS to the scenario that popped into my head. Despite not being written, this is a multi-fic, which means this is the second chapter, and there will be more after this. I hope it was worth the wait.

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**Your Savior**

You are on your way to a business meeting that night. It may not be your cup of tea, but your client right now is fond of going to shady clubs and seedy hotels. You shake your head, blowing a thin cloud of smoke out the window of your moving car. Nowadays, rich people act like commoners, while the poor carry themselves like royalty.

The driver stops the vehicle in front of a tall building and you couldn't suppress the urge to expel a sigh of relief. At least this one looks more presentable. You step out and look at the posters hanging on the establishment's façade. Your sigh of relief evolves into a groan of frustration.

_Oh, great. _You curse mentally. _A gay bar, just what I need._

Yes, it suits your preferences nicely, but right now, in the face of a major business deal, you can't afford to stare at the passing call boys and hosts wandering about. Maybe next time.

You enter the club and your eyes wander for your man. You appreciate how business is conducted: no one in skimpy, barely there outfits, only a tolerable amount of alcohol, and no minors that you could see. It seems that old De Luca can appreciate the better things in life once in a while.

The usher stops you on the threshold and asks for your business. You give De Luca's name and the man nods before leading you to a backroom where – you realize as you step into the dim, and boggy opium-scented room – the real deal happens.

Your face bunches into a despaired expression as you see half-inebriated, half-debauched men, women and teenagers fill booths and tables, strewn bottles of different spirits and random pieces of clothing. You are directed to a private booth and you get even more disgusted.

A private strip show is the mode for entertainment which, judging by the height and general body structure of the dancers, is mainly comprised of _very_ young men who couldn't be out of college.

Currently, a young man with long flowing silver hair (could it be bleached? Platinum is _not_ a common hair color in Asian countries) is dominating the small raised platform. The only things left on him are his pants and a mask that covers the lower half of his face. The wide mouth and pointed teeth depicted on the mask reminds you of a shark somehow, and you realize that must be it, as the youth's movements are fluid and aggressive. You take a seat and down the shot of scotch handed to you. You rub your right temple, where you feel a migraine blooming.

"Mr. De Luca, can we please get this over with?" You ask in your most patient tone. "You know that my sister Bianchi insists I be home for dinner every night."

"Now, now, Mr. Gokudera," the over-sixty Italian chuckles as he guzzles down some brandy. "I hardly ever visit the Philippines; let me enjoy the main event."

You sigh and watch as the small stage goes dark. _At least,_ you think, _I wouldn't get bored while I wait._

The lights blaze on, and a lone man stands on the platform, his back to the room. The song comes on, the melody a mix of traditional Japanese and Mandarin. The performer moves, smooth and swift, like a bird in flight. He turns around, and his masked face comes into view: sapphires and rich, royal blue feathers around narrow eyeholes, a golden beak on his nose. A noble sparrow, if you've ever seen one.

You are captivated. Every wave of his hand, sway of his hips, nod of his head; your eyes trail every part of him. Fortunately, you are a master actor, and you have schooled your face into a disinterested expression; or else, the old coot sitting across from you would have been treated to a different kind of show. You thank your lucky stars that the dimness of the room hides the entrancement in your eyes.

The show draws to a close, and for the finale, the young man rips off his mask and it flies in your direction, landing soundly by your feet. But you don't take notice, because your eyes are glued to him, instead. You can't believe it. All you see is the face of your dead god brother when he was younger.

* * *

You pace in front of the table; back and forth, back and forth. Bianchi is sitting down, the papers and documents you were able to get your hand on were in hers now, and said hands were shaking from deep emotion.

"I-I can't b-believe it," she whispers, breathless, disbelieving but relieved. "We… did it. We finally found him…"

"It's still unconfirmed," you mutter, but, in your opinion, it's as good as done. Apparently, Bianchi thinks so, too.

"What more confirmation do you need, Fratellino?" she asks. "He has it all: his face, her eyes, her hair, his smile…"

She caresses the photo attached to the employee's profile he had his secretary, Damien, 'buy' from the owner.

"It's also written here, his parents," Bianchi continues, smiling widely, yet sadly. "Mother: Maya Rivera; Filipino; deceased. Father: Tsuyoshi Yamamoto; Japanese; deceased."

She sighs, puts down the sheaf of papers on the table, and leans back in her seat. "Now the question is: How do we get Tsuyoshi-nii's son back to Japan?"

You pick up the profile and stare hard at the photo of a young man with spiky, short hair, brown eyes, and a warm smile. _I'll get you, Takeshi Yamamoto,_ you vow to yourself. _I'll get you; even if it's the last thing I do._

* * *

Whew! Okay! I'm working on the next part. Oh, and Hayato's around in his late twenties to early twenties, and his dead god brother is Tsuyoshi. And yes, this is going to be 5980. This'll be a little longer than expected, but since it'll only be two weeks from now that I'll be on semestral break, I hope I'll be able to continue this. It'll still be categorized to completed, though... Review, please!


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